


this will be entirely forgotten

by elegantidler



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, Trans Character, Trans Erik, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26354728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantidler/pseuds/elegantidler
Summary: There will be no grand choirs to singNo chorus could come inAbout two people sitting doing nothing
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	this will be entirely forgotten

The late afternoon sunlight drifted lazily through the leaves and landed gently on Erik’s bare face.

He was, in theory, reading while Christine gardened, but his attention kept drifting.

Over the top of his book, he watched Christine wander through their somewhat overgrown garden, barefoot and wild-haired. Every so often she would pause to trail her fingers along a flower petal or to lean down to breathe in their scent.

She never cut any flowers. She had told him, quite seriously, many years ago, that she couldn’t stand to see flowers wilt and die for her pleasure. So instead, he had bought her seeds and bulbs and watched as she had brought them to life every spring, slowly turning the ugly and barren back garden into a haven bursting with life and color.

She had trained roses thickly up the fence to hide the garden from the view of those walking by and she had dragged him outside with her on every warm day to help her plant or to just sit with her and watch life meander through the flowers.

He had been so reluctant at first, so used to darkness that the sun had seemed unbearable, so afraid of anyone seeing him, well trained by a lifetime of pain. But she had persisted and eventually there was nowhere else he would rather spend an afternoon than in their garden with her.

He was even comfortable enough to go without his mask now, sometimes even shedding his coat on very warm days. Christine has seen him wearing much less than that (and he blushed furiously just thinking about it) and still she had never doubted, never questioned. And still she called him husband, still loved him, still kissed him and still gently trailed her fingers over every inch of him and loved all his differences.

With her he could just _be_.

There was no mournful song of agony replaying itself endlessly inside his head anymore, desperate to get out, no music of suffering dogging him.

The music he wrote these days to sing with Christine all bore her mark; it was her smile, her laughter, her gentle touch when he was overwhelmed by everything. It was not grand and it would not be played again after he was gone, but to him it was beautiful. And it was with her. 

Christine looked up, shielding her eyes against the sun and saw him watching her. She smiled and he smiled back.

Just like that, without fear or self-doubt, or questioning, he could just smile at his wife.

It had happened so naturally he almost hadn’t noticed. He was no longer a corpse, no longer a thing hiding in the basement waiting to die; he was just an ordinary man.

She picked her way through the flowers and sat down beside him, threading her arm through his and resting her head against his shoulder.

He turned slightly to press a kiss to the top of her head and she sighed contentedly. 

“The lilies are fading already,” she said a little sadly.

“The roses are still blooming.”

Christine didn’t say anything but squeezed his arm and settled closer against his side.

And they sat together in comfortable silence.

And they watched the fading sunlight paint the garden gold.

And they were happy.


End file.
